


confused your servants for friends

by cosmicpoet



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Angie's Island, Execution, Islands, Religion, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: DeepSea has failed. The inhabitants of Atua's island are no longer receiving food, and in their delirium, they turn against the God they held so dear. Angie, merely a divine messenger, finds that starving masses of delirious people can turn against their own family as well as their revered religion.





	confused your servants for friends

The groans of the hungry ring around Angie’s island, a solemn toll of the twenty-fifth day with no contact from DeepSea. She wakes to the sound of her collective family’s pain, and closes her eyes in the misty sunlight before rising. Only allowing herself a moment of introspection before getting out of bed, Angie lies quietly, the echoes of death aching through her ears. She must pray to Atua, beg him once more to reconnect the island with their food source - this she does, her hands clasped so tightly that she almost feels each finger bone connect with the next. Her own hunger is beginning to show; her skin, tightly wound around her ribs, constricts and pains her stomach, but the divine grace of Atua hollows out her spirit and gives her the strength to stand up.

Walking out of her small cottage, each step resonates in her mind as a dizzy reality - running on limited food has been affecting them all for days now. Still, the devotion of her home remains strong, and praises to Atua are sung through each hallowed hall as she makes her way to the communal kitchens.

She sees the older women, faces withered in pain and wrinkled with age, preparing bread for the day’s meal. Bread, again. All they have left is grain and wheat, and the crops this year haven’t been bountiful, so they’re running on finite supply.

“Good morning,” she says, plastering Atua’s bright smile onto her face, “Atua says that Angie should give her share of food to the hungry children of our beautiful island today!”

“You sure, Angie? We gave yours away yesterday.”

“Yep! Atua’s will is divine and absolute.”

Tempted into mortal sin against Atua’s divinity at the sight of the food that she is not permitted to have, Angie takes leave from the room and progresses onto the beach. Nobody has danced for a while now, and the ghosts of the footprints on the beach have long since been blown away by wind; still, she sits for a moment, trying to warm her cold bones underneath the sunlight. Although stuck with Atua in her own mind, she finds that she cannot be alone on the beach; two of the younger children come up to her, their hands hanging empty and heavy, weighted by their sides.

“Is there any word from Atua, Angie?”

“Of course,” she says, “he came to me in my dreams last night and said that as long as we all keep believing in him, he will send us bountiful crops and shipments of delicious food very soon!”

“You said that four days ago,” one of the children says sadly.

“Atua works in divine ways! He will be true to his word, I promise. Now you,” she takes the childrens’ hands, “go and pray to him for doubting him, okay?”

“Alright, Angie.”

On the way back to her cottage, she bumps into Nanya, the woman responsible for collecting the blood donations for Atua. Although normally, Angie merely oversees the donations, they’ve been dwindling recently with the amount of people who are already fainting due to lack of food and sleep; the _DeepSea Crisis,_ as it has been dubbed, is hitting everyone hard.

“Care to spare a pint, Angie? We could use some of your divine blood today.”

“Of course,” Angie says, trying to keep her voice upbeat for fear of making Atua doubt her devotion, “in fact, Atua says you can take two pints!”

It’s not long before Angie is sitting in the donation room, lying almost horizontal in the chair. She winces when the needle pierces her fragile flesh, but the pain soon numbs to a faint tingling; without complaining, because Atua wouldn’t like that, she closes her eyes, even when her legs start to feel light, too. Her whole body becomes static, and before she can say anything, Nanya is taking the needle out of her arm.

“Thank you, Nanya,” Angie says brightly, standing up a little too quickly. In an instant, Atua leaves her mind and swims through her whole being, power coursing through her fragile mortality, forcing her to black out and fall onto the ground.

When she wakes, the world is exactly the same; food is still scarce, people still rely on her, and she’s still sad. But no - she’s not sad, because Atua flows back into her with the divine, blossoming warmth that encompasses her whole body.

“Angie?” Nanya says.

“Mm?”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

The voice in Angie’s head directs her towards her response.

“Atua’s power gave me such divinity that my body couldn’t handle it! It surely must be a sign that things will improve soon!”

“I mean…if you’re sure, Angie.”

“It’s not me that’s sure, it’s Atua! And I feel his power right now, my my, how inspired I am to create!”

Before anyone can protest - not that they would understand how Atua works, anyway - Angie uses the last of her strength to skip back to her cottage. As long as her fellow inhabitants of the island see her being positive, then Atua’s grace will bless them, too, and they’ll find the strength to overcome the _DeepSea Crisis._

In her cottage, she doesn’t even make it through to her studio before she dry heaves onto the floor - there’s no food for her to vomit up, so she just pukes water and shakes until her body goes still. Although the rational side of her wants to clean it up, Atua’s voice tells her that his power will not stay with her forever, and she must create in his name right now. So, she makes it to her studio, busying herself with paints and canvas; despite locking herself in the room, she opens the window to get a slight breeze whilst she paints.

She hears voices from outside.

_“Atua has left us.”_

_“No, this is his will.”_

_“He must be a cruel God, then.”_

_“Is this Atua’s fault?”_

_“Atua is starving us!”_

_“We must take matters into mortal hands.”_

_“How can we defy a God who has been so benevolent?”_

_“His benevolence has left him and damned us.”_

_“What can we do?”_

_“I’m so hungry it hurts.”_

_“Atua wants us dead! We read about this in the old stories.”_

_“Are we not good enough for him? Does he want to kill us all and start over?”_

_“No, we did everything he asked.”_

_“Even the blood sacrifices!”_

_“So what gives?”_

_“Maybe his messenger has failed?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Maybe it’s Angie.”_

_“What?”_

Angie’s breath hitches in her throat; she wants to go and chastise them for slandering Atua’s good name, but her body is no longer her own, and she must create. Create, create, create. All she can do is give completely in to Atua and let her hands bloody the canvas like an impossible suicide note from an unwritten reality. There’s another universe, one in which she has free will - her mind aches with thinking about it; the idea that people would appreciate _her,_ not _Atua._ In thinking this, she feels her God grow angry within her, and she clasps her hands in apology. 

_“What if Angie is lying to us?”_

_“No, she wouldn’t.”_

_“Then why are we starving?”_

_“Because…Atua…”_

_“The way I see it, Angie and Atua are one and the same.”_

_“So?”_

_“So…we get rid of one, we get rid of the other.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Well, we can’t exactly pluck a God from the sky and execute him, can we?”_

_“So you’re saying…?”_

_“Yeah. It’s for the best.”_

Her hands are exhausted from painting, but she has to finish this. It’s her masterpiece; Atua in his crowning glory, surrounded by fruits and vegetables and light. She normally never depicts Atua directly in her artwork, but here he is, white hair, wearing a yellow jacket…she’d say that he looks just like her, but that would be undermining his divine creativity; she’s just a vessel, a shell, something for Atua to discard when he’s finished. Angie Yonaga has no divine right.

Still, Atua doesn’t rain down plagues on the people of the island when they burst through the door of her cottage. She hears them, just outside her studio, and she begins to panic. Before she can scream or allow herself to feel fear, she feels the comfort of Atua holding her close, protecting her from mortal attack; this calms her, even though her eyes widen when she hears something heavy banging against the lock of her studio door.

Accidentally, she knocks over the fresh cup of unused paint water onto the floor. As it pools into a vague shape, Angie sees her reflection in the water - her scared face, no aura of light around her head. There’s a parallel universe in every puddle, and she wonders if another Angie is already wearing a halo right now.

The pounding gets louder, and it’s only another moment before the lock breaks and dozens of people swarm into the room. Closing her eyes, trying to visualise Atua behind her eyelids, Angie feels hands on her shoulders, tearing her from the room. There’s a blindfold stretched tightly around her eyes, and she feels her arms bound by rough rope; she can’t be scared, she _mustn’t_ be scared, because she’s still a vessel of Atua, and even in the face of adversity, she needs to be strong. Even when her ankle gives out under her, most likely breaking her foot, and the pressure of being dragged across stones pulls at her flesh, she tries to smile at her captors.

Suddenly, something upright is against her back, and she’s bound by the rope all over, now. When the blindfold is ripped off her, she sees that she’s tied to a wooden stake, standing atop a pyre. Her fellow islanders, her _family,_ look at her with a mixture of betrayal and sadness.

One woman comes forward. Angie remembers her name as Afia - she makes a point to know everyone’s name. With a lit torch in her hand, she lights the bottom of the pyre.

Angie closes her eyes. She doesn’t feel the flames yet, but she hears the chants of the people surrounding her.

_“We sentence Atua to death by execution.”_

_“How’s this for a sacrifice, huh?”_

_“False God!”_

_“Angie Yonaga needs to die for us to be free!”_

_“If Atua is real, he’ll protect her!”_

Angie laughs behind her tears. _‘If’_ Atua is real. Of course he’s real, otherwise her whole life will have meant nothing at all. Still, the flames are congealing, collecting at the bottom, but they’re rising fast; still, it isn’t quick enough for the crowd, and they drip-drop gasoline over the fire. The heat and light licks up the pyre, scaring her with its brilliant glow - she begs Atua in her mind to spare her life, or at least spare her the pain that’s beginning to trickle up her legs.

Her merciful God warms her mind, and she feels no anguish. The bursting heat of the fire becomes a warm blanket to her, and she smiles serenely, even facing her own death. Soon, she will meet Atua in person, and surely he will welcome her into his gracious open arms; after all, she has been his faithful vessel and messenger for many years, and Heaven will be a deserved sanctuary of peace. In her mind, she hears him speak to her.

“Be gentle,” Atua says to her, “you are chosen.”

She nods.

“I have to leave you, now. Your mortal body will begin to fail.”

Her eyes snap open and she screams out loud, feeling the icy chill of solitude, despite being about to burn.

“Atua! Don’t leave me,” Angie yells, sobbing, “I never did you wrong!”

_“Is this the right idea?”_

_“She’s trying to trick us.”_

“Please! It hurts, Atua! Let me be at peace with you!”

_“She’s only nineteen. We can’t do this to her. What if we’re wrong?”_

_“If we’re wrong, then Atua isn’t real and she’s been lying to us all about being his messenger.”_

“Please! If not Atua, then you! I don’t deserve this!”

_“C’mon, can we really keep watching this?”_

_“She has to die. Or we all starve.”_

“I’m begging you, Atua,” Angie cries, her voice thick with sobs. Her throat is stuck with heavy smoke, and choking out words is harder with each passing second. “Save me!”

The flames grow higher, reaching her midsection now. The pain, however, is universal, and she feels it right from her head to her feet; even though she cries out, nobody comes to her rescue. Even the taunts of her executioners fall flat against her ears now, as all she can hear is the crackle of the fire that is slowly consuming her, and the deafening absence of her God.

Her body gives into the flames, and she feels death overcome her. Her spirit seems to float upwards towards the sky, beckoned into the arms of Atua. Finally…she can visualise him, but…

He keeps changing.

The moment her dead eyes focus on one aspect of his appearance, he fades and morphs into something else. She catches a glimpse of a woman who looks like her, and the word _‘mother’_ echoes on her distant tongue, but…nothing.

The sacrifice ends with nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my wonderful friend Space, who also provided me with the names Nanya and Afia! I hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment if you liked this :^)
> 
> Title from 'My Eyes' by The Lumineers (it's quite an Angie song)


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